


Retribution

by Of the League (Serpyre)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Gen, League of Assassins - Freeform, Mother's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 14:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpyre/pseuds/Of%20the%20League
Summary: Nyssa al Ghul never knew who her mother was.





	1. Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: If you have not read ''Arrow — The Dark Archer'', I advise you to click away, because none of this would make any sense if you haven't. Also, if you do proceed though, then... *SPOILER WARNING*.

Nyssa al Ghul had always wondered who her mother was. 

When she was younger, she often had fantasized dreams of meeting her mother, wondering whether she had loved her or not, wondering if she was somewhere out there in that dark, dreary world. In the League of Assassins, this idea seemed silly. This was a League of Assassins, built for killing and assassinating, replacing ‘evil with death’. It was a life of ‘kill or be killed’, the only life she’d ever known. There was no times for dreams of her mother. 

And yet, dream she did. She remembered the rare moments when her father would speak wistfully of her mother, and she would crane her ears and remember every single detail that was told. She wanted to _know_. And knowledge was dangerous, especially in the League.

Ra’s al Ghul would usually bring up the topic of her mother in his private quarters when they were alone and somewhere, far away from the prying ears of his assassins. Sometimes, he would show her some memories— the book her mother had loved to read, the antique chair that she’d cheekily forced her Father to buy, maybe even show her some of her trinkets if she was lucky.

Once, her father had shown her one of the many chains he wore around his neck — it was an image of two snow leopards plated in silver, captured in one deadly, but a graceful moment: crafted carefully to show a refined image of two leopards, both leaping over one other. He would sometimes mention her name — Amina, though she had heard and had remembered what Ra’s had called her once, many years ago when she was still young, and the League was still unknown to her mind — Lourdes. She doubted it was a slip. Her father was too wise, old and aged with memories of many to ever make a mistake. He, also, had once mentioned another name. Saracon. Her brother, Ra’s had said when she once overheard him muse in his own quarters, gazing out of one of the grand windows of his room, his expression one far away. 

Her Beloved had never failed to mention that the first half of that name had _her_ name in it. She said that if she had ever met her brother, she would joke about it, somehow. Her eyes darkened. She _would’ve_ , but she was now resting with an unfair death, life buried into the cold damp grounds under a cold stone slab. 

She gritted her teeth. It wasn’t fair, but she had learned that lesson during her upbringing. It was the first of the many: Life wasn’t fair. Her Beloved was dead. Her Father had died to the blade of Al Sah-Him, when she was supposed to rightfully end his life. Her father’s rival and her Beloved’s killer— Al Sah-Her had made his ascension to Ra’s al Ghul, stealing her rightful title and rightful chance at revenge. And now, her mother was dying too— in place of where Malcolm should’ve met his end, a dreary chamber of stone where the waterfall and blood alike were shed.

Her younger self had always believed to find, to meet, to _see_ her mother someday, one _day_ … It was in her soul, she _knew_ it in her soul… the idea had always been there, beating, living, hoping against all hope that she might just meet her, someday. She had thought that she’d brushed it off as idiotic, foolish dreams that would get in the way of her predetermined, set life… but her life wasn’t set any more— the things, the events she determined that would happen in her life was all now turned upside-down, the carefully laid-out plans now messed up like someone had ruffled through them and didn’t bother picking up the pieces, leaving her to deal with the consequences and aftermath… but unlike scattered paper, this _couldn’t_ just be easily put back to its original form. And as much as she’d wanted, she couldn’t put it back. Couldn’t take back what she’d done. Couldn’t take back every action, every word, every draw of the blade or slice of the sword. Couldn’t.

She thought she’d meet her, one day, no matter how improbable or impossible it seemed. She’d just never expected to meet her mother like _this_. Buried, as her Beloved had— a cave collapsing atop both of their heads, one alive and one dead, and another standing still with a sword in his chest…

Her Father had once said that she let her emotions cloud her judgement when it came to personal matters… such as love. She had never admitted it, but it was true. More than true. It was a weakness, her Achilles’ Heel — that had to be rid of, that had to be no more… but that didn’t matter now. Malcolm Merlyn was dead, ran through by her brother’s wicked sword. _She_ was now the Heir.

But now, _she_ was the one facing her dying mother, in place of what should’ve been Malcom’s deathbed, yet another person taken from her life in such a short amount of time. _She_ was the one suffering from the consequences of Malcolm’s, her Father’s, Oliver’s and to some extent, her Beloved’s actions.

She didn’t want to blame her Beloved. She couldn’t blame her Beloved. But… how could that be, when you knew that she was the one who inadvertently caused this chain of events, she was the one who died and left her alone and hurting in the League, she was the one that broke her heart, over and over again?

It was selfish of her, she knew. But how could she not?

She didn't pretend to understand how or why  _this_ could happen: just because of one link, one chain, a simple step and an unrightful fall. Was this the result of letting emotions cloud her judgement, the result of something her father had warned her, over and over; when she'd first fell in love with Sara, and declared her as her Beloved in front of the League, and when she'd sought out for her after she'd left her confined in the League's dreary walls (even if it was her home, the only place she'd known, it had never felt more constricting when she was gone), and then yet again when she was confronted with her father for her emotions, more than once. 

Her brother must’ve felt the conflict raging inside of her, because even with a sword impaled in his chest, he stepped aside. She stumbled, and fell to her knees as she crawled towards her mother’s broken, crushed form. Her brother gazed at her, facial features betraying nothing — but he seemed to bristle on the inside, like some sort of brotherly instinct that had aroused inside of him.

Nearing her fallen form, she shed her tears — the ones she’d kept and held inside of her for her entire life, the ones her Father would’ve berated her for because she was showing weakness… and she was. And she wouldn’t deny it… couldn’t deny it. The tears she didn’t shed during her Beloved’s death fell, the tears she held back when Laurel showed her kindness when all she saw was dull, the tears that weren’t there when Oliver was crowned Heir; the tears that didn’t fall when she finally saw her Father, dead— the tears that didn’t fall, finally fell.

Her mother, dying but still not dead must’ve somehow sensed her distress, because in one painful, jerky movement— her hand that was once situated limply on her side, shakily extended to caress her cheek. She blinked through her tears and closed her eyelids, savoring the only contact, the only moment with her mother that she would have left.

She heard the faint, raspy and barely audible voice of her mother as she murmured something in Arabic. It took a second for the words to register in her mind. ''Ibna…'' she croaked, but it sounded like a lullaby.

 _''Waalidatah_ …''

Even as she lay dying, a bare smile creased her features. _''Shh, ibnaty_ … _It is alright.''_

 Her mother’s hand brushed against her cheek and she swept her warm, rolling tears away. She stifled a gasp and a sound suspiciously close to a sob, as her mother cradled her cheek, not wanting to feel weak.

A moment later, the soft touch of her mother’s warm hand left and the faint hum in her voice stilled; and she didn’t need to open her eyes to know that something gave in. Behind her, she could hear Saracon choke back a sob. She would’ve been lying if she said that her face didn’t contort into a grimace and turn away from the broken, cold body, in a futile attempt to keep the emotion off her face.

As she tried to find footing on her unsteady knees, her own hand unintentionally brushed against her mother’s cold yet soft palm that rested on her stomach. Tracing the lines of her mother’s palm, she couldn’t deny the similarities between both of their palms; in size and in scars alike.

Finally, with a small, almost inaudible sigh that didn’t even sound like her, she turned back to her half-brother— her cheeks wet and eyes brimming with mist and showing plain emotion that, in any other instance, she would’ve berated herself for. Her brother had the same look on his face, one that she doubted he’d usually wear, even if she barely knew him. They allowed each other to be weak in the other’s strange presences, and neither minded.

Slowly, she shakily rose from her kneeling position, and stood. Carefully scooping up the broken form of her mother in her arms, she quietly nodded towards him to leave the once-unsteady cavern.

She didn’t look back.

 

tbc.


	2. Flaw

''Nyssa, wait!''

Rage thrummed through her boiling veins, the ear-splitting shrieks pounding on the monotonous white noise that didn't stop blaring since she retrieved her dead body sent her into a spiral that dimmed her vision blind. She didn't stop at the source of Saracon's voice, however; only increasing the pace of her step, her jarred vision to go a shade black, and the deafening roar in her ear to amplify.

She trudged through the sands that felt to eat at herself as she ploughed on, with her limp and dead mother in hand as the mixed stench of blood and stench of skin was overcame by the consuming heat. 

''Sister!'' Saracon yelled to her through the desert dunes, but his voice barely registered in her reverberating mind. ‘’You cannot.''

Then, finally, she swivels towards her brother, ignoring the bubbling emotions that was sure to graze her mentally trained impassive features, retaining her so-called impenetrable facade and composing herself as the best of her ability. ''And why is that so?''

''… Malcolm Merlyn is my biological father. He is my kin.'' If she was surprised by his statement, she didn't show it. 

''It had not stopped either of us before, has it?'' Nyssa’s tone was humorless, scoffing as she turned back towards the blazing sands and sun.

 ''I do not murder my own.'' His tone was stale and unusually cold, accusing even. 

Usually, she would not bother with such conversation; as the Heir to the Demon, she had done no conversation. Another lesson she was taught by her father. They were distractions and planted seeds of doubt in her mind that she couldn't afford, and she accepted his word, producing and instigating none; other than when she was briefed for missions, and when she was with... Sara.

The lapse of aching pain that she'd expected; the one that filled the hollow void in her chest, gave her feeling; _love fear death sorrow rage anger_ , even for a moment, didn't come.

Instead, she growled. ''Are you implying that I do not have honor?’’

''No,'' he said evenly, ‘’But you cannot storm Nanda Parbat either. You, out of everyone, know how well the fort is defended. You will die.’’

Nyssa gritted her teeth. She would've let out a hollow, broken chuckle, but she knew the empty wave of pain wouldn't go away. ''I do not care. If death would come for me, then so be it.'' A slight smile passed her features, subduing the hurt and anger and rage, even for a moment. ''It had been long enough.''

Saracon set his jaw. ''Still, I cannot let you storm into a suicidal mission.''

She ignored the regulations that the League had prescribed. Leaving the cracked mask, she let the emotions that she had hated, ignored, angered, break surface once more. ''And why is it that you care?'' 

''You are my sister.''

She almost snorted. ''That is not enough reason.''

Finally, after a few moments which felt to stretch for more, as they both stood in the broken dust and as the stretches of dusk expanded a horizon, he eventually responded.

''I belong to an organization. We call ourselves The Hidden. I am to plan an assault on the League, through its weakest points, in order to orchestrate an infiltration to end Ra's region and free the condemned assassins under his rule.'' 

Nyssa scoffed. ''Then you will know that Nanda Parbat is heavily fortified and defended on every end. There is no chance for entry, even if by an army. We anticipate attacks and we protect; it is no coincidence as to why it is still standing a thousand years later.''

Saracon looked thoughtful. ''Yes, but they had no insider on their side before.''

Nyssa remained silent.

''As you had stated so kindly, Nanda Parbat is well-defended and heavily guarded. However, there is no castle without its breakage, a chink in one's armor, as well as there is no person without their Achilles' Heel, or weakness.'' 

She practically stiffened at his wording, shading behind her own facade. Saracon never looked away from the setting sun. ''Every place and thing has its fault. I intend to find it, and I had my chance.''

He seemed wistful.

''Unfortunately, that information belongs to the League assassins, and them alone. There was no... asset that was willing to cooperate,'' he said, brow creasing grimly. ''We have captured many, and interrogated few. Half of them died when we spoke the first word. The other half was found already dead in their cells.''

After a pause, he continued. ''We have tested many times. Nothing surpassed their loyalty to the League.''

Nyssa didn't need to ask to know what he was thinking. ''What makes you take confidence in the fact that I would not betray you to the League once we are on the inside?''

He wouldn't meet her eyes. ''You are not loyal to Malcolm Merlyn.'' He waited for a rebuttal; there was none. ''You hold a vendetta against him for the murder of your Beloved. You will not rest until his body is laid into the cold dead dirt, and even then, you will try to find ways to exact your revenge. His sin is unavenged.''

She stood silent. ’’If I were to accept your proposition, _brother,_ what would you offer me?’’

''Revenge.'' A moment later, his lips curled upwards. ''If that offer is not tempting enough itself, then I will, ah, _sweeten the deal._  I will present you the Demon's Ring.''

''I could exact my revenge without your help.'' Although she spoke with confidence and the pride she had attained when she was Heir, it fell flat, sounding like a weak protest than a bold statement.

She had assassins that were loyal to her in Nanda Parbat; that was true. After her return, she could merely call for a battle within the walls of her home, and perhaps the walls surrounding Malcolm would fell and she could take back what was hers.

_Perhaps. Maybe. Possibly._

But it was not enough.

Nyssa wet her lip, and stared into the dwindling horizon. She was just dragging on the conversation to outwait the inevitable conclusion. Her brother didn’t respond; without a doubt, he knew what was lingering in her mind.

''Are you with me, sister?''


	3. Fire

After resting her mother's pale body into the spare tent, Nyssa's gaze aimlessly flittered over it slowly, observing the parts that she recognised from her own self, and those that were mirrored from Ra's.

She could see herself in her mother— the same jawline, the chiseled appearance that made even the most dignified warriors bow, the slight crease in the brow— these she all saw, but she would never again see what made this woman her mother.

She would never see the confidence she took in stride, the air of authority she held leading a chamber of assassins, the regal pace she kept, the spark of fire that burned fervidly her eyes. She would never see her beyond a pale surface of yet another face, would never know her beyond another rotting body, even if her mother was the one that sired her, birthed her, made her, perhaps, even if she herself didn't know.

With one last look, she drew the flaps and stepped outside to find Saracon sitting atop on one of the many rocks that dotted the cliffs, eyes distant staring at the starry night.

They had set camp after the sun set, on a rocky outcrop near the oasis. Perhaps it was not the most convenient location, but it was viable; efficient enough to be on the lookout for League spies and assassins, whilst remaining hidden amongst the rocks. They had managed to gather wood and ignite a flame using one of her inflammable trick arrows, having hunted a few hours before; cooking the various meats and supplies were only logical.

Fire crackled in front of his aloof gaze. When his stare finally met hers, she could see nothing but the thorough hollowness. He must've realised it as well, because as quickly as his gaze met hers, it left.

Silently, Nyssa approached him, and sat herself down on one of the many boulders. Although she was undoubtedly hunted by the League, by the orders of Malcolm Merlyn and was out in the open for any assault, she didn't care. They could try.

She felt at peace; tranquil, even, despite all that was happening in the ravaging outside. Somehow, something about watching the vast dark skyline and the twinkling, smiling stars was far appealing than the rigorous training in the League, to be the best and better again, mind ordained towards revenge, rage and anger. Only those hateful emotions.

It felt… different. Perhaps in not a inferior way, but not in a admirable way, either. Her Beloved was dead. She had to avenge the bestial deed, and to do that required the death of Malcolm Merlyn. There was certainly no time to wait, because for every ticking second meant that his sin was unavenged, and her failure towards Sara swelled in her heart; and furthermore, there was certainly no time to sit back and  _relax_.

But she was.

The landscape was silent, save for the chirping of the insects and the crackling of the fires. It had been awhile since she was able to savour the spectacular vistas or enter somewhere that wasn't covered in training mats. If she concentrated, she could make out the outline of assassins skirting the corners, but it didn't matter. They were a fool to believe if they could sneak upon her without her notice.

After the cave collapsed into itself and when her emotions hadn't quite caught up with herself yet, she didn't think she would end up  _here,_ of all places, looking revenge against the League. But here she was now.

Saracon had borrowed her spare medical pouch and swiftly dug out the blade, and with immense concentration and self-taught will, stitched up the wound. Now, he was fiddling with the bloodstained blade with his fingers.

Then, as Saracon twirled the stained blade with his fingers, he broke the rustling silence. "The wound isn't too bad, if you were wondering. But Nyssa… I have been thinking. Have you relied on someone, knew someone, loved someone to an extent that you've forgotten what it was like without them, forgotten how… different it was without their presence, how to live  _life_ without them?'' He let out a bitter chuckle, but it fell short. Is that normal? Is this… pain normal?" Finally, he shook his head, resignation gracing his features.

Nyssa wanted to laugh bitterly; respond that yes, she had, that she'd knew the pain every single passing day, that she could've only lasted so long with her mind dwelling on  _revenge,_ that every day without her was an aching reminder of what she'd lost, that it hurt her every day.

Before Nyssa could even speak, Saracon laughed, but it was hollow. ''Stupid question. You were the Heir to the Demon, after all,'' he says in the calculating, analysing tone of his, and Nyssa felt a twinge at the word choice.  _Were_.

Then, one single, fleeting moment, his somber features softened. ''… you had taken a Beloved once, haven't you?''

Perhaps painful memories should've flashed in Nyssa's mind — memories of her Beloved's bright, happy smile, memories of her light, her love, mixing and manifesting into images of her cold body in the morgue, dead, images of autopsies and three arrows stuck in her chest, streaks of smeared blood and cracked bones, dying, dying, dead — but they didn't.

However, Nyssa only finds herself dipping her head quietly. That was all the answer Saracon needed, his somber smile mirroring the crackling flames. ''How was he?''

It was barely audible, but she caught it. Nyssa forced a snort down, but nevertheless responded. ''She, Saracon,'' Nyssa corrected. ''She was a sanctuary I never thought I needed before. She was my…'' a bare chuckle, ''escape.''

_An escape from the League, even for a single, fleeting moment. A reminder that life was not merely confined to the walls of Nanda Parbat and the desire to be better, to be the very best. An unforeseen idea, a different perception, a… light in spite of the darkness she grew up with, the darkness she never saw until the light came in sight._

_And when the light was lost, she saw the darkness that she disregarded once again, but magnified a thousand times more, an aching void replacing where the light used to be; a reminder of what she lost all too clearly._

''… And I yearn every day.''

Saracon seemed mildly surprised; however, it was quickly replaced with a mask of indifference. Although it looked similar to the previous calculating facades he wore, she could make out the hint of thoughtfulness and a level of depth that never appeared with the other masks he wore.

His eyes flickered downwards in a traditional League sign of respect. ''I am sorry, sister,'' he said, voice stiff.

Nyssa responded with a quiet nod.

After contemplating the whistling silence as the broken end of the blade swirled thoughtfully in his fingers, he finally spoke. ''She was all I had, after our… escape. But I didn't  _appreciate._ At least, not enough. Not until her untimely…'' His lips quirked upwards in a grim smile. ''Demise.''

Nyssa couldn't look at his face—not anymore. Her eyes found her feet, in a similar fashion to his. Nyssa's emotions tired her, and she did not want to think nor contemplate. For a moment, both brother and sister mourned for their losses—  _inevitable losses —_ but painful still.

And then, as the flames crackled in the pyre, Saracon broke the howling silence. ''I… I was enwrapped in my own thoughts. I wasn't myself. And I was selfish. I took her for mine, when she could've been yours.''

The unspoken word lingered like a ghost above both parties.  _Ours_.

''Perhaps…'' he murmured, wistfulness seeping into his tone.

_Perhaps…_

A flicker from the flame brought her out of the pensive silence. Arching her back, resuming her posture, and ridding the emotion from her voice, she asked: ''What will be our plan to infiltrate the League?''

Saracon raised an eyebrow. ''You'll have to give me something to work with, sister.'' Then, he gestured towards the sand, where a map of Nanda Parbat had been crudely etched out with his bloody blade. ''My initial plan was to burn the League to the ground, for its sculpture and woodwork makes for it an intensely flammable place. However, I believe nothing is as simple as it seems… especially for a fortress that hasn't been infiltrated since forever.'' Then, his lips quirked. ''And most particularly when the homes you are burning have the people you want to save.''

Nyssa bit back a smile, despite the precarious situation they were in—in the middle of a desert, a dead mother's body to take care of, surrounded by assassins loyal to Malcolm in the League. ''Fire is banned in Nanda Parbat, save for a few trusted soldiers, whom Malcolm allows the use of candles,'' she begins, sardonic in her tone. ''There is a fire-pit, near the Ra's throne—however, that is heavily guarded in itself. Furthermore, once Nanda Parbat is aflame, everyone dies. Trying to burn anything would be suicide.''

Saracon nodded, once, twice, as if he was taking in what she'd told him and was re-evaluating his plan.

But quietly, Nyssa added: ''I know a tunnel into the main entrance. Around the lower-left wing of Nanda Parbat, it leads right into the Throne Room. I had found it when I was training.  _We_ used to use it, when we...'' she trailed off.

Saracon gave her a look, and she didn't need to look at him to know what he was thinking.  _Sara._

Suddenly, she was caught off guard by various dark silhouettes running amid the dunes, slowly but surely nearing towards them.

"League assassins," Saracon breathed.

Nyssa growled in frustration. "They've found us. We may be able to outrun them, but—'' and she was cut off by a sharp glance to the side, for there was only one silhouette, and it stood in the center among the sand dunes, and that was when she realised—assassin. Not assassins.

She bit back a curse. There was only one person she knew who would wait to duel and not attack dead-on without the support of a group, and that would be because attacking in a group would just display the group's incompetence in contrast to  _her_. ''One Who Is All,'' she snarled in frustration, as she pulled her blade from its scabbard.

Saracon's head whipped towards her. ''Who?''

Nyssa didn't bother to give him a full history, but instead quipped: ''The League's finest.''

''Damn,'' Saracon muttered, readying his bloodstained blade as well. ''How did Malcolm manage…?''

Nyssa scoffed. ''Probably cost him a fortune.''

''How can we fight her…?''

She gave a grim smile, and sheathed her blade. ''One of us has to challenge her. She's waiting for us.''

''Us?'' Saracon sounded surprised. He tested his own bloodstained blade in his hand—as if weighing his odds.

Nyssa sighed. ''Not you, brother.'' And at his bewildered glance— ''Neither can I. The One Who Is All is too strong. She reads our actions a moment before we even know it happens. We cannot possibly defeat her.''

Saracon stared at Nyssa grimly. Sheathed his blade. ''What do you suggest, sister?''

''We don't fight her,'' Nyssa said. And when Saracon looked at her as if she were insane, she said, with even more force:  _''We_ don't fight her, Saracon. We let her take us.''

_We need a way in._

Saracon stared at her, his mouth agape, but she ignored him for now, and focused her gaze on the assassin. ''Are you with me, brother?''

With a shake of his head, Saracon sighed and drew his blade. ''Fine, Nyssa. You are right. We do need a way in.''

He didn't like this, Nyssa could tell. But still she unsheathed her blade and made a path towards the assassin in the middle of the desert, and Nyssa felt the makings of a sandstorm approach.

Growling, she dragged her blade across the sands, bouncing with every hit. She stared at the figure facing her, donned in a garb of black. Saracon looked at the assassin as well, his jaw gaunted, gaze betraying nothing.

A grim smile emerged on Nyssa's features. ''Do it.''

One Who Is All cocked her head. Looked at Saracon—but then, her eyes flickered away from him, and focused on her.

_Don't need him. Only you._

Nyssa's eyes widened.  _No—_

One hit was all it took.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by! Sorry for the late update, but Chapter 3's almost done, so expect quick updates from here on out. :)
> 
> To those wondering, there will be mentions of Nyssa/Sara, but mostly it's Nyssa/Saracon bonding. I won't want to spoil too much, so I'll just stop here.
> 
> Reviews fire the muse. :)


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